The Maths is Done
by lucelafonde
Summary: Kind of AU. In a world where everyone is born with a number visible on a random body part, a number which only exists twice - on yourself and on your soulmate -, the Holmes brothers have managed to never see each others. What happens when that changes?


Every person was born with a number visible on a random body part. This number existed exactly twice: on yourself and on your soulmate. It was considered common courtesy not to let your number show, unless someone explicitly asked to see it.

Mycroft never asked anyone in his whole life. He considered these dreadful things a burden, forcing him to hide his right hand's ring finger ever since he was born. His brother Sherlock suffered from a similar fate, having the numbers visible just above his collarbone, inducing the habit to wear a scarf at all times.

The brothers had managed to avoid seeing each others markings so far and intended for it to stay that way. If Mycroft knew about Sherlock's numbers, he wouldn't stop searching for the poor soul who shared them until he found them and vice versa.

It was better this way.

When John Watson showed up, Mycroft not only found his numbers, he also found his soulmate. One Mary Morstan, nice girl, cute enough and definitely worthy of the doctor's love. Should he ever happen to meet her. The older Holmes brother did not meddle with other people's love life as a rule. Playing matchmaker definitely wasn't his division.

He was relieved to discover John wasn't the one meant for his brother, however. He did like and respect the army doctor, but he just couldn't bring himself to accept him as a suitable companion for a man like Sherlock.

So the months went by, Mycroft all the while watching with clear amusement how John struggled between keeping his girlfriends and dashing off whenever his flatmate needed him. The government official knew his brother's friend wasn't gay, of course, but his girlfriends didn't.

It was mildly entertaining.

When Mycroft ordered his brother to Buckingham Palace, only to realize he was wearing nothing but a sheet, he was shocked, to say the least.

Panic crawled up in him and clutched tightly to his guts, but he let nothing on.

Instead he just ignored the sinking feeling of oncoming dread, telling his brother politely to cover himself up.

He refused.

This was nothing like Mycroft had imagined it would go.

He tried to ignore the exposed parts of Sherlock's body and focused on his face, never letting his gaze shift anywhere below that.

Stepping on that sheet was a mistake.

When the detective turned around to FINALLY grab his clothes, his brother saw everything.

And his whole world shattered in that one moment it took Sherlock to remember his numbers were openly exposed for everyone to see.

1 – Mycroft's heart skipped a beat.

8 – Please turn around again. Please.

9 – This bodes ill for us all.

5 – A whole era. A whole world. Two lives. Everything. Ruined.

After this exposure, Sherlock was uncharacteristically obedient, putting his clothes on and taking the case. His brother willed him to get this over as fast as possible. He needed to be alone now.

Mycroft forbid himself to think about anything that had happened in Buckingham Palace until the door to his home was safely locked behind him.

Then he just slid down on it and sat there in silence for two whole hours.

1895. He chuckled low and unhappy. Of course. It made cruel sense, didn't it?

He slid off the ring on his finger and inspected his own markings.

There. 1895.

How did he never think about this possibility?

In a sudden fit of anger he threw the ring on the ground and jumped up.

"I refuse to accept this!" he yelled into the emptiness. "This is not fair!"

No one answered, which made him even angrier. He stormed into the living room and destroyed most of his possessions in there. When he reached a picture of himself and Sherlock – his brother had just finished High School – he came to a halt.

"How did I not know?" he softly asked the silence while caressing the frame. "I always watched out for you. You were always my first priority. So how is it I never dared look into your biggest secret?"

Mycroft laughed sadly. Naturally he didn't. Some part of him always knew, of course. How could it not? It was so obvious, he was ashamed to think the revelation even surprised him.

For the first and the last time in his life, Mycroft did not know what to do. He didn't have a plan. He didn't have a solution. And that felt worse than the realization that his brother was his designated soulmate.

When next time the brothers met, neither mentioned the unfortunate sheet-accident. They behaved like they always did. Good, Mycroft thought. So he doesn't know.

It was when he let Irene Adler go and returned to his home that he was confronted with that dreadful business again. He had almost managed to forget about it.

"Let me see your hand," a voice came from behind him. The government official didn't need to turn around to know who had broken into his house, so he didn't. He just kept walking until he reached the living room and poured himself a drink.

"Pardon me?" he asked once he had taken a sip of his brandy.

"You heard me perfectly well, Mycroft," Sherlock said impatiently. "Your hand, brother. Show me."

"I do not see why my hand would hold any interest for you, Sherlock," Mycroft answered, locking eyes with the other man, neither willing to look away and show any weakness in front of the other.

"Don't you? That's interesting," the younger one said and stepped closer to the other. "I could have sworn you were trying to hide something from me."

"And my hand holds the key to answer all your questions? I am flattered." He watched the detective approach him with catlike grace and willed his body to stay calm. If he so much as flinched for a second, he would give away everything. This was not allowed to happen. EVERYTHING depended on his brother not knowing about their unholy connection.

Sherlock stood right in front of him now. Neither of them breathed or blinked for what felt like an eternity. It was the detective who gave in first.

"I saw how you looked at me, Mycroft," he whispered into his ear. "Did you really think I would not notice? I have been expecting this for a long time now, brother. Don't make me wait for proof any longer."

"I do not know what you are talking about, Sherlock," he replied in an equally low voice.

"Oh, you don't, do you?" he snickered. "Then pray tell: why does your ring look like it got forcefully acquainted with something fairly solid? Did it JUMP off your finger?"

"What do you want?" Mycroft was tired of his brother's games. He obviously knew about everything. The only remaining question was what would happen next.

"Isn't that obvious?" Sherlock grabbed the brandy Mycroft was holding and their fingers touched. He slowly put the glass down on the table next to them, both their hands remaining on it.

"I'd rather you said it," he confessed, gaze still not wavering.

"I want proof. I NEED proof to know that I'm not just imagining this," Sherlock pleaded and his eyes became demanding and vulnerable at the same time. Mycroft almost couldn't stand watching. Almost. He willed himself to remain unmovable and refused to answer.

"Please, My..." the younger one eventually said silently and dropped his head on his brother's shoulder. "I need to see it."

There was no way Mycroft could ignore a request like that. Slowly, he raised the hand his brother was still touching and offered it to him.

Sherlock eyed him questioningly, with obvious anticipation. The older one just nodded.

When the detective had finally pulled the ring off, he caught his breath and stared at the hand he was holding in absolute silence.

"Mycroft..." he finally started, but his voice cracked and he just stared at his brother, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Sssh..." his brother drew soothing circles with his thumb on the hand that was still holding onto his. "It will be fine. I always take care of things, don't I?"

"Yes, you do..." Sherlock nodded slowly, mesmerized by the patterns his brother was drawing on his skin.

"I will always watch over you, no matter what happens," Mycroft continued. "It's fine. It's all fine."

With that, he brought his other hand up to caress his brother's cheek and slowly drew him in for a kiss. Sherlock didn't try to move away, but neither did he reciprocate it. Mycroft was just starting to regret his action and meant to back off again, when he finally put an arm around the older one's waist and held him close. He, in turn, moved the hand from his brother's cheek to his unruly curls and twirled them playfully as he lost himself in the kiss.

When they separated, Sherlock smirked mischievously and poked Mycroft's side a bit.

"You've gained weight again, brother," he remarked fondly.

"You need not pretend you don't like it, BROTHER," Mycroft replied and kept playing with the dark curls in his hand. "Don't think I haven't noticed the look in your eyes every time there was a bit more to me than before."

"You are evil, Mycroft. Pure evil..." Sherlock mumbled and affectionately kneaded the soft flesh in his hands.

"You're one to talk, Mr. Tight-Shirts," Mycroft purred into his ear and started opening just that.

"Oh, shut up."

And shut up he did.

Maybe those numbers weren't as bad as Mycroft had originally thought after all. It was hard to question the legitimacy of something when it meant sharing a bed with Sherlock.

The maths was done without him. He just had to enjoy it.

And there was no one he'd rather enjoy it with.


End file.
